


into the days of our grace returning

by fakelight



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Post-Canon, half wishful hoping half terrible theorizing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 18:38:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18762124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakelight/pseuds/fakelight
Summary: Her eyes flick down, his gaze too intense to hold. “You said you loved me.”“I do.” He says it instantly, plainly. No flowery words, nothing to dress it up. It’s the bastard boy who loves her, not the king, and she feels another crack in her heart of ice.





	into the days of our grace returning

“Hello.”

The wind almost swallows the word, but she knows he’s heard her from the way he goes rigid.

He doesn’t turn. But he doesn’t walk away either, which she takes as some kind of sign.

“I wasn’t sure I’d find you here,” she goes on, after the silence stretches out for too long. A year of silence, she realizes, as she considers his silhouette, framed against the sky.

She watches his head bow, his shoulders slump. “Didn’t think I’d survive, m’lady?”

 _“Don’t call me that_ ,” springs to her lips, but Arya catches the words before they come out, before they do any more damage. She takes a cautious step forward, wincing as he stiffens further at the sound of her footfall. “It’s my lady, now.”

His head jerks to the side, and she can see his body start to follow, before he steels himself, turning back and staying resolutely facing away. But he can’t resist the question, and the tinge of hope in his voice almost breaks her.

“What?”

She takes another step. “Not m’lady. You separate the words out. Now that you’re highborn.” The words echoing through her past, across the realm. Words of a dead man.

(There are so many dead men.)

“I wasn’t born high,” he grits out, shaking his head, almost rueful.

She’s close enough to where he stands now that she can see over the edge of the tower, to the lands below. His lands. His tower.

“I’ve never been up here before,” she says, lightly.

He laughs, almost to himself. “Neither had I. Until.”

“It’s nice,” she offers.

Gendry laughs again, sardonic this time. “ _Nice_ ,” he repeats.

She doesn’t respond, choosing to take another step instead, until he’s an arms-length away. She could reach out and touch him now if she wanted to, her fingers itching to do so, but her hand stays at her side.

He shakes his head, huffs out a sigh. “What are you doing here, Arya?” he breathes out, resigned.

There’s something raw—something jagged—in his voice that gives her pause, but he’s still standing there. He hasn’t run from her. And she owes him this. (She isn’t a Lannister. But she pays her debts all the same.) Another step. Standing just behind him now, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from him, even with the wind.

(He always ran hot.)

Gendry tilts his head in her direction, just enough to see his profile in the waning light, and she feels a sharp stab, somewhere deep within her heart.

It wasn’t supposed to hurt.

“What wasn’t?”

Arya realizes she’s said the words out loud, something she’d never meant to say, even with all of her intentions. She turns to flee, but Gendry's standing in front of her, blocking her path, and she gets her first good look at him since he’d staggered away from her as she nocked another arrow. Willing herself blind to his heartbreak.

His clothes are cut to fit him. His hair is longer, his resemblance to his father even more pronounced. But as his hand slips into hers, holding her fast, Arya feels the rough calluses she remembers, and she knows that he’s still himself, still the blacksmith boy under all his finery.

“What wasn’t supposed to hurt?” he asks again.

He’s trapped her now, she knows it, with his words, with his eyes staring into hers. With her obligations. She couldn’t leave now, even if she tried.

“All of it—any of it.” She could leave it there, but she wants him to understand. “Fear cuts deeper than swords.”

He frowns.

She’s explaining herself terribly, but how can she put it into words? The precipice she’d found herself standing at the edge of, unable to let herself jump, not when there were things left unfinished, names left in the world. “I couldn’t be afraid.”

There’s no fear if there’s no one to fear for.

It’s a meager explanation, but something in his gaze softens. He looks down, breathes out. Breathes in. His hand still warm in hers.

“Arya—”

“I’m not a lady. I’ll never be a lady.”

He swallows, and she can see the guilt that creeps its way into his expression, the regret. “I should have never—I know that’s not . . . it’s _not_ you. And I shouldn’t . . . I wouldn’t—”

Arya takes one last step, cutting him off. Close enough that if she wanted, she could rise up onto her toes, press her mouth to his in the way she hadn’t let herself imagine, not until this moment.

“I’m not a lady,” she repeats.

Gendry looks like he’s about to launch into more apologies, explanations, but he catches himself as her words sink in. He looks at her sideways.

“No,” he says, tentative. “But you’re here.”

Her eyes flick down, his gaze too intense to hold. “You said you loved me.”

“I do.” He says it instantly, plainly. No flowery words, nothing to dress it up. It’s the bastard boy who loves her, not the king, and she feels another crack in her heart of ice. She’d given him up. Twice, now. To do it again would be too much to bear.

Her eyes are still on the ground, and she shakes her head, a quick jerk. “I had to become someone else. For so long. I lost myself for a while. And even when I got her back . . . I didn’t know how to love.” _Not anymore_. _But if I could have, it would have be you. It’s always been you._

She can’t say it. Not yet. She wants to.

Someday she will.

“But you’re here,” he says again, and she can hear it once more, the hope threading through his voice.

Arya nods. Her gaze rises up, and the rush of warmth that she finds in his eyes runs over her, enough that she almost shivers with it. Instead, she flexes her hand in his, interlacing their fingers. It’s all she can do, for now.

It’s enough.

Gendry leans toward her then, his breath stuttering across her lips, but she’s the one who closes the gap between them, rising up and kissing him soft and sweet, with a hard edge, sparks flying. She feels another piece of her heart break away, not from grief, or loss, but instead from something that feels like joy.

It belongs to him now.

“I won’t be a queen either,” she warns, as she pulls back.

“I wouldn’t ask you to be,” he says, relief in every word. He tugs on her hand, pulling her toward the door. “Will you come inside, _my_ lady?”

The emphasis isn’t lost on her.

She glares for a moment, but only a moment. He’s learning.

Perhaps she can too.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” she says, gripping his hand tighter, and follows him inside.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Tallest Man On Earth's [The Running Styles Of New York](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WtuIRwjQ7E).


End file.
